“It is over now,” said Gilbert, as the crashing stopped and the dust began to settle. “You were not touched, were you?”
“No; but poor father and mother—” She could say no more.
Leaving the girl in the house, Gilbert stepped outside once more. A glance showed him that the tree had settled as far as possible, so danger from this source was now over. He ran to the side of the elder Bartletts, to find Mrs. Bartlett trying to regain her feet. The lady had a slight bruise on the shoulder, but was otherwise uninjured.
“My husband! He is dead!” she panted. “Oh, poor Amos! What shall I do now?”
“He isn’t dead. He is only unconscious,” said Gilbert, as he knelt by the tea-merchant’s side, and applied his ear to the elderly man’s breast. “His heart still beats. See, he has been struck in the back of the head.” And he pointed out the wound, from which the blood was trickling.
“What shall I do?” repeated Mrs. Bartlett, wringing her hands. The disaster had completely unnerved her.
“Get a little water and a towel, and we will bind up his head. Is there a doctor anywhere about?”
“There is a doctor on the street behind ours,—Dr. Fairchild.”
The water and a bandage were brought; and Amos Bartlett was raised up, taken into the house, and placed on a couch. By this time he was regaining his senses, and he slowly opened his eyes.
“Oh!” he murmured, and looked around him. “My wife and Jennie, where are they?”